


Fist Full of Rain

by anticipatewrites



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drug Abuse, F/M, hurt!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 16:07:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15100292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anticipatewrites/pseuds/anticipatewrites
Summary: Dean makes a terrible mistake and turns to harder stuff than whisky to cope. It even works for a while until reality comes crashing down on him.





	Fist Full of Rain

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a song request, Jolene by Ray Lamontagne. I suggest listening to it to set the mood, but it's not necessary to understand the story. 
> 
> Warnings: drug abuse, alcohol abuse, cannon typical violence

Fist Full of Rain

The streetlight outside cast strange shadows over the table in the dark motel room. The empty lowball rested easy in the dark, sitting next to the plastic wrapper from a pack of smokes that held the remnants of his latest vice. He picked it up and twirled it between his fingers, feeling the weight of what was left. Tossing it back on the table, it came to rest against a tape case that once contained Zeppelin IV, but which now was a tool for his almost-addiction. Four neat white rows had graced its cover a half hour ago, obscuring the old man bent over by the weight of his heavy load. One row remained. Picking up the MasterCard that was supposed to belong to one Gerald Mason, Dean leaned over and cut the line of cocaine into two smaller ones, wanting to stretch this out. The rolled up twenty dollar bill became his road to salvation for the three seconds it took him to move the white powder into his bloodstream. He held his breath for a moment, waiting for the full body shiver to pass. Oh, look, the lowball was full again. He didn't remember filling it, but it certainly was convenient. 

‘Awesome,’ he said to himself. 

And looky there. Half a carton of his favorite blue Marlboros. Sober Dean must have done that. Mostly he didn't like Sober Dean, but this time he had to hand it to the guy for being thoughtful. Suddenly there was a familiar round shape being pressed against his lips. He inhaled the soothing mentholated smoke, not recalling lighting it. But there was the silver Zippo, lying unassumingly next to the old tape case. He picked it up and felt the weight of it. Flicked it a few times. Damn, that was a satisfying sound. 

The wooden motel chair where he was sitting, legs stretched out, boot-clad feet swinging side to side like a metronome that had been wound too tight, suddenly was the most uncomfortable thing in the world. Dean shot out of it like he had been scalded. He paced back and forth between the empty double beds for a while. Felt like he was running a marathon under his skin. Thirsty. God, he was thirsty. The well-lit bathroom behind the Orange and yellow papered half-wall called to him. His cupped hands, carried the sink water to his lips and he drank deeply before he splashed his face and scrubbed it for good measure. Woah. Looking in the water-spotted mirror, he noticed his pupils were so large they almost obscured the green completely. Kinda wigged him out. Definitely not prepared to deal with black eyes. 

He went back to the vice-loaded table and took the last line from the tape case, deciding not to look in anymore mirrors for a while. Maybe ever. Dean was restlessness. Pent-up. Needed to talk to somebody. Didn't know if he could deal with the dwindling patrons of the bar next door. Needed somebody who would listen. Truths that needed to be said out loud while the dopamine was still tap-dancing in his brain and his feelings were as numb as his gums. 

She sounded sweet on the phone. That kinda scratchy smokes-too-much voice asked for his address. Told him she had to be paid upfront. He still had Gerald’s left over cash in his pocket from buying the eight ball, so he told her, ‘No problem.’ It was true, he never paid for sex. Never had his whole life. But he needed something so much more valuable tonight. Hoped she'd understand. Fuck, he needed another hit, cut out four new lines from the white ball contained inside the translucent plastic. 

The knock at the door had his pulse pounding. More than it already was from the shit he'd been inhaling. Looking through the peephole, she waved at him with a wink. Cute. Lots of curly blonde hair. Sliding the chain through its track and flipping the dead bolt, he opened the door, a big smile spread across his face, hoping she was the salvation he had been looking for. 

She wasn't. The minute he opened the door, three dark shadows appeared behind her and from somewhere outside of his body, he felt the bones in his nose break. Throughout his life all of these same bones had been broken before. He could name them as they went. Occipital. Sam-Lucifer. Middle nasal concha. Cas. Infraorbital foramen. Sam again. Mandible. Dad. And it felt so good. Like he deserved it and more for what he had done to the woman he loved so much. He begged for it. Relishing the blood streaming down his face. Maybe this was what he needed after all. Blood and snot and tears all mixing together. He couldn't really feel it. ‘I hope they kill me,’ he thought. ‘So much easier. What I deserve.’

His subconscious gave him what he really wanted while he was face down in the dirty ditch where they dumped him. Her dark blue eyes. That smile that never failed to make him feel like a million bucks. She reached for him in his dreams. Kissed away the broken bones and broken heart and broken soul. When he woke to a face full of dirt and filth, her light nowhere to be found, Dean cradled his swollen, once-beautiful face in his hands. The loss of her light expounded ten-fold by his come down. But that knowledge didn't stop the hollow sobs that wracked his body, kneeling there in the mud, tears freeing the dried blood to flow down his face once more. 

A familiar but distant sound rumbled through his thoughts and brought him back to the present. A squeal and a bang and the sound of boots on pavement. His brother's too-long hair ticked his nose as great snot-rending wails escaped Dean's abused throat. Those solid, broad shoulders became his lifeline. He remembered a time when he had been the protector and not the perpetrator, shielding his brother as best he could from all the horrors in the night. Dean laughed-coughed-gagged at the thought. 

‘It's ok, Dean. I'm here. Everything’s gonna be ok.’

Dean nuzzled into the space between Sam's shoulder and neck. God, how he wanted to believe that. Wanted to hang on all those words. But it wasn't true, was it? 

Sammy shut his eyes tight and sent out a prayer. They both knew who it was to. 

‘I'm here, Sam.”

‘No!’ Dean let out a broken sob, waterlogged jeans the least of the things that were weighing him down. Felt like he needed to be back on Alistar’s wrack, paying for his sins. Couldn't stand the fingers and blue light that healed his broken bones, cleared away the bloody mess that was his face. 

He draped himself over his brother's large frame like freshly laundered sheets hung out to dry. Clinging. For all that the angel had healed his wounds there was still a large, sucking hole right in the middle of him that could never be filled with angelic magic. 

Cas slipped himself under Dean's right arm and the two men in his life that should have been enough managed to shuffle him into the backseat of his car. And that was all wrong too. A low rumble of thunder rattled the Impala’s windows and the green soldier in the ashtray where he was staring. The driver door was wrenched open and Sam sat down in Dean's seat, the growl of the engine driving away the sound of the temperamental weather.

Sam watched his brother with one eye on the road and one focused on the rear view mirror for miles and miles. Stock still, eyes glazed and unfocused, curled into himself. Hours passed with no movement in the back seat. Rain beating a steady staccato onto the black roof of the car. 

Momentarily startled by the wet, windy sound of the rear window being rolled down, Sam watched as his brother dug in the front pocket of his still damp jeans. Found the treasure he'd been looking for. A crumpled photograph. Dean smiling his true-smile, all white teeth and freckles, arm around his girl. She was looking up at him like he was her savior. And maybe he had been in a lot of ways. Savior and executioner all wrapped up in one neat bundle. 

A tear rolled down his brother's face, hand gripping the well-used image, it moved to the open window. Rain ruining the last piece he had of her, he let go.


End file.
